


The Kiss

by TrouserFreeTuesday



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Crack, basically nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2513924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrouserFreeTuesday/pseuds/TrouserFreeTuesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Marian Hawke wants is a kiss. All Fenris wants is to clean his mansion in peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

> For Rimah.

Marian Hawke is no stranger to hairbrained schemes. If you were to ask her mother, she'd say Hawke's entire life was basically a constant stream of various schemes. One of her worst ones starts, like so many others, at the Hanged Man. And, again like so many others, she was very very drunk. It starts off like a normal card night, Anders losing terribly and Varric looking suspiciously smug, until Isabela pulls Hawke aside to discuss business proposition.  
"You're honesty proposing a jewelry heist?" Hawke asks incredulously. It sounds like something out of Hard in Hightown. Actually, Hawke’s pretty sure Varric actually did write a jewelry heist one a few months ago. Hawke has been pointedly avoiding them, out of sheer fear of whatever rumours he’s started about her. She doesn’t like the ones she’s heard about, she doesn’t need to know anymore.  
"If it helps," Isabela says offhandedly, "He's not the rightful owner anyway."  
"And who's the rightful owner then?" Hawke takes a sip of her ale, which like much of the Hanged Man's drinks taste faintly like piss. But hell if they didn't do the job. "You?"  
Isabela scoffs. "Sometimes I do vaguely legal work, if the pay is good enough. Some fence stole it from an estate in Hightown and, from I've heard, is trying to pawn it off with some Orlesians at the docks. The original owner is apparently willing to pay a great deal for it's return."  
"Why do you need my help? It sounds straightforward enough."  
There’s something suspicious in the way Isabela responds, the halfhearted shrug and dismissive sound before she begins to speak are bright red flags running circles around the conversation. She’s hiding something. “Just in case something goes wrong. Seems like these days things are going more wrong than right. Besides, I’ll give you half the cut. Twenty gold strike your fancy?”  
This is not the hairbrained scheme. That happens later, after Hawke’s agreed to help Isabela (Money is money, after all), and they’ve had significantly more drinks. Fenris arrives, fashionably later and in a suitably sour mood, and Hawke takes one long look at his lanky figure and says, “He’s the one.”  
“What?” Isabela cocks her head to the side. Distantly, Hawke can hear Fenris telling Varric something about how this card night better be important. What other matters Fenris has to attend too, Hawke is not sure. Everyone he talks to he is here.  
“The one I want,” Hawke says, and just in case that wasn’t quite clear enough she makes a pointed thrust of her hips and reiterates “You know, the one that I _want_.” Distantly, there is a voice in her head telling her this is maybe not something she should admit to in public but at this point the room feels too warm and her vision is swimming, so to hell with it. Fenris doesn’t seem the sort to engage in any relation with, well, anyone, but certainly mages are out of the question. The broody, glowing, elf thing is probably a deterrent for anyone who’s life is not a slow-moving trainwreck. But Hawke’s life is precisely that, and she is very keenly interested in Fenris. She’s made at least eighty ridiculous excuses to visit the decrepit mansion he calls a home (The most ridiculous being that she was wondering if he had, by any chance, seen a cat wandering around the neighbour, and when Fenris had pointed out that Hawke did not even have a cat, she ‘accidentally’ knocked over an entire bottle of wine to change the topic).  
The thought that she’s said the wrong thing gets louder when Isabela laughs and says, “Fenris? Don’t get me wrong, I see the appeal, but I think it may be easier to sleep with Varric.” Anders, across the room, swears loudly and throws his cards onto the table. Still losing, then.  
“Want to bet?” Hawke wiggles her eyebrows.  
This is the start of the hairbrained scheme. Isabela is never one to turn down a bet, so after a moment of thought, she agrees.  
“You have one week. If you can get Fenris to kiss you, within one week, you win. If you go kissless, I win. Sound fair?”  
Hawke nods, gamely, and has another gulp of her ale. “What are the stakes?”  
This requires some thought on Isabela’s part, and it does not take long for Hawke to realize leaving it up to Isabela was likely a poor idea. The last time Varric had lost a bet with her he had wound up having to write a profoundly offensive, and aggressively sexual tale of a beautiful pirate becoming stranded in a strange city and seducing a charming dwarf with magnificent chest hair. That, Hawke is certain, had given Varric a few grey hairs.  
“If I win,” Isabela says thoughtfully, “You have to take me to the next bigwig ball you get invited too and let me pick your outfit. It will be suitably horrible. If you win, I’ll do something equally embarrassingly of your choice. Fair is fair, after all.”  
When Hawke wakes up the next morning, head throbbing, she’s pretty sure she’s made the wrong decision but she is a woman of her word, so the first thing she does, despite the massive hangover and desire to burrow into her bed for the next year, is settle down at her desk with a quill and parchment. She has some serious planning to do.


	2. 'Tis Not Quite The Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanging mistletoe may have worked if Fenris had any idea what it actually was.

Day One is simple. Mistletoe. It was all Bodhain’s idea, bless his heart. For someone who seems so averse to trouble he’s always awfully willing to lend Marian a hand with her ridiculous ideas. Now the flaw with this plan is that it’s the middle of summer, and no one is selling any sort of winter flowers in the market. Hawke spends what is admittedly far too much time crafting a fake mistletoe out of parchment cut and rolled into different shapes. By the time it’s finished it’s already mid-day and Marian scrambles for a reason to have Fenris pay her a visit. In a poorly planned moment of panic, Marian tells Bodhain to go to Fenris’s place and tell him to come immediately, and to “try and look panicked”.  
“Should I be specific, Serah Hawke?”  
“No, be vague,” Hawke replies, “But, like, worryingly vague.” He can’t meander over on his own time, otherwise she’d be waiting underneath a fake mistletoe all day. And, despite the impression spending all morning on this ridiculous plan gives off, Hawke is a busy woman. Bodhain nods and hurries out the door. And, instead of replying to any of the letters piling up on her desk, Hawke hangs the mistletoe in the entrance to the main hall and practices sensually draping herself against the door frame. It feels ridiculous, and eventually she settles on just lying in wait behind the door. She’ll step out casually, and say something like Oh, Fenris, fancy seeing you here and he’ll give her a slightly confused look and say, This is your house. Why…wouldn’t you be here?  
This all goes out the window when Fenris rushes in, ahead of Bodhain, looking worried and breathing heavily. He stops as Hawke steps into view, and looks her up and down. “Hawke! Are you alright?”  
The worry in his expression makes Hawke think that this was probably a mistake. In hindsight, yes, with the amount of trouble she gets into it makes sense that likely Fenris assumed the worst so maybe it was a bit of a dick move to scare him like that. But it’s too late to back out now. “I. Er. I’m fine. The problem’s been solved.”  
“Do you mind if I ask what the trouble was? You don’t often seem to need much help with most things. It must have been awfully dangerous if you had to call me over.” His eyebrow arches dubiously. Shit, he’s onto to her.  
“It was nothing!” Hawke says, with a nervous laugh, “Just. Nothing. Oh, look! A mistletoe.” She points upwards to the door frame. Fenris follows her gaze and he frowns, perplexed.  
“What’s that?”  
Shit. He’s not from Fereldan, of course he has no idea what a mistletoe is.  
“It’s, uh, a berry. And if two people stand under it, they’re supposed to kiss. It’s a Feastday tradition.”  
This doesn’t seem to clear matters up. “Is this some strange Fereldan thing?” He asks, curiously, “Also, isn’t it a bit early to be celebrating Feastday?”  
This was not thought through very well. “It’s never too early to get in the season?” Hawke replies, weakly. She’s pretty sure she’s not going to get that kiss today.  
“Also, I’m curious, why hang them from the ceiling? Isn’t there a better use for them, maybe eating them? Or making wine?”  
Fenris is still staring up at the mistletoe, though he does cast a sidelong glance at Hawke. In response, she shrugs. “You know, I’m not sure. I mean, I wouldn’t eat these ones.”  
“Are they poisonous?”  
“Well. They’re parchment and paint. So probably.”


	3. True Love's Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian tries a classic, "The Sleeping Beauty", and it backfires horribly.

If Marian is being fully honest, her second idea is not great. They burst into Fenris ’s mansion in the middle of the afternoon, Marian laying as limp as possible in Ander’s arms while being slowly suffocated to death by his fluffy pauldrons, and Fenris’s immediate response is “What the hell is going on?”. He sounds worried, which Marian may totally be imagining but if it’s true is totally encouraging. Anders acting abilities, however, are not. 

“There’s been an accident,” Anders declares. Marian cringes. It’s barely believable to begin with, let alone if the sole other conspirator in this plot is acting stiffer than a plank. Mind you, Anders had barely been willing to help. Marian had to bribe him with the promise of medical supplies that was actually planning on giving him regardless, but why let him know that?

“Why are you-” Fenris begins, but his tone changes sharply when he spots Marian, “Is she alright?”

“No.” Anders says flatly. Marian drives an elbow into his chest. It’s not a hard jab, too much force would ruin the illusion of being unconscious. Anders clears his throat, and continues with a bit more emphasis, “She’s been hit by a spell. Only a kiss can break it.” 

Marian can almost hear Fenris ’s frown. The jig is up. And it’s all Ander’s fault. Apparently there were no acting lessons in the circle. 

“Then why didn’t you?” Fenris says, dryly. “Unless there’s a particular reason _I_ need to kiss her. ”

Shit. Anders is tense, and clearly stuck. He stammers for a few minutes, before coming out with:  “Only true love’s kiss can break it?”

God damnit Anders. Marian elbows him sharply, and in shock Anders drops her. She lands on the cold, tile floor with a loud thud. Above her, Anders clutches at his chest. He ’s giving her a look like she’s just betrayed him horribly, as if he hadn’t just ruined her life. With a loud, and possibly fake sounding laugh, Marian rises.

“Praise Andraste, I’m saved.” She says loudly. Fenris is staring at her, eyebrows raised, with a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other. “It turns out that _ridiculous falsehoods_ also break the curse. Fenris, ” she says with a curt nod. 

“Hawke,” Fenris replies, vaguely amused. He returns the nod. Marian leaves without a word, waiting until she’s safely out the door to let out a frustrated curse. Now Fenris thinks she’s in love with him, and that is the last thing she wants. Anders follows her out, clearly not welcome in Fenris’s place at all.

“That went well.” Anders remarks. He’s clearly not buying a word of it. Marian smacks his arm. “Ow, Hawke! I didn’t agree to help you just to be beat up.”

“You are the _worst_ wingman ever. ” Marian huffs. “Luckily, this is why I have Varric. Want to come with me to the Hanged Man?”

“Only if you promise to not assault me again.”

Marian makes a non-committal noise.

Anders sighs.  “Fine.” 

 

 


	4. To Be Or Not To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New from Varric Tethras: a sweeping, romantic stage play. Tethras's first debute into theater, and likely his last.

Marian holds a script with ink stained hands. She and Varric had stayed up most of the night pouring over each line of dialog. Varric’s been saying he wanted to get into stage production for months now, and Marian had told him this was his chance. It was no Orleasian drama, that was for sure, but it was something. The last pages of a sweeping, dramatic romance, set in the backdrop of some old city-state fued between Kirkwall and Starkhaven. The young children of the viscount’s of each city fall in love, and are violently separated when an all out war begins to break out. The scene Marian is holding is the big scene, the tearful declaration of their love, followed by a passionate kiss. She just has to convince Fenris that she’s been cast in the lead. She knocks on Fenris’s door before stepping into his mansion. It smells clean, like fresh air, instead of the musty smell of cobwebs and wine. Is that the sound of a breeze? Fenris never leaves the window open, it’s too ‘cold’, he says, as if a Kirkwall spring is a frigid Fereldan winter.

“Fenris?” Marian calls, curiously.

“Come in, Hawke,” she can hear Fenris reply, distantly. She finds him in one of the side wings, sorting through old chests. A mop lies on the ground next to him, dripping into a slowly growing puddle. She raps on the doorframe. Fenris glances up, rocking back to a crouch. “Afflicted by another spell?” His eyebrow arches, and Marian looks down. Warmth spreads across her cheeks.

“Thankfully not,” Marian replies. “Are you cleaning?”

Fenris points to the mop. “Clearly. I can only handle so many spiders before something must be done. Whoever lived here before kept quite a lot of junk.” Fenris glanced around, “As you can see.” There are about four huge boxes scattered around the room, each too full to properly close.

“I’ll help you if you help me,” Marian says, waving the script around. “I’m helping Varric out by starring in this play he wrote. It’s ridiculous, honestly, but you know, gotta help your friends. I need someone to rehearse with.”

Fenris takes a moment to consider this. “Don’t keep anything unless it looks valuable.”

Nothing looks valuable. Literally, all garbage. Some old containers, all empty, three empty bottles of whiskey, what looks like old cat toys. It’s all useless, but Fenris seems to be taking a great deal of amusement in the eclectic collection. You’d have to, to sort through garbage for three hours. He pulls things out, arching an eyebrow and presenting it to Marian silently. A pair of old, ugly shoes, adorned with cheap plastic flowers.

“Think Isabella would enjoy this?” He asks, dryly.

Marian looks them over, they’re bright red, with sparkles that are falling off with every movement. “Maker, no.” Marian grabs them from Fenris and tosses them into the small cute pile. “I need to give them to her. Imagine the look on her face.”

Fenris hums. “Another classic Hawke gift, I’m sure she’ll love it.” He rises slowly, joints cracking. He’s probably been sitting there all day. “Shall we do your thing now? I think we could both use a break. And a shower.”

Marian nods, and passes the script over to Fenris. “Perfect, you can be Valencio, it’s the final goodbye scene where he professes his love to my character, Marielle. We should start around page 3, that’s where I’m having the most trouble.”

Fenris is staring at the page, brow furrowed. Panic coils up in Marian’s stomach. Does he not like it? Is it bad? Maker’s Breath, he probably thinks it’s terrible. It really is drivel anyway. She’s about to reach out and take it from him when Fenris gives her a curious look.

“Marian,” he begins, slowly, as if reminding her, “ _I can’t read_.”

Marian’s stomach plummets. “Fuck.”


	5. The Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris knows, Marian is embarrassed, but then again, what else is new?

Fenris knows.

He has to.

Marian has royally screwed this up. He’s barely been around the Hanged Man. Probably avoiding her. Probably because she forgot he couldn’t read, like an asshole. What the hell, Marian? Who forgets that? She sighs, burying her head into her hands. Waves crash against the pier, and a sailor shouts commands is the distance. This used to be relaxing. She could focus on the people coming in, wonder why they were coming to Kirkwall, and not think about everything that has gone wrong lately. But this time, above all the other times, is probably the most embarrassing and though consuming problem she’s ever had. Firstly, she’s made herself look like an idiot in front of Fenris, and secondly Isabella will be embarrassing her in front of all the Hightown nobles.

“Maker’s breath,” she sighs.

“Hawke.”

Marian doesn’t move. Instead, she tenses up. Why is he here? How did he find her? “Fenris,” she says into her hands. “How did you find me?”

“Varric told me. May I sit?”

Marian gestures to the spot next to her, and Fenris sits down gracefully. “Remind me to fire Varric.”

“I wasn’t aware you can fire your best friend,” Fenris remarks. He sits close enough that their shoulders could touch if she tilted just a little bit sideways. Marian stops herself, wrapping her arms around her legs instead.

“You can,” Marian says, “When he’s also apparently your public relations manager. You know he told three people that I fought a dragon singlehandely? Three people now think I can kill a dragon, by myself!”

“Well. We did kill a dragon, Hawke.”

“Yeah, we, not I. If I had tried that by myself I would had died.” Marian looks up, still avoiding glancing at Fenris. The sky is overcast, and cloudy. Just like her mood. Fenris chuckles.

“You should have more faith in yourself,” he says, kindly.

Marian snorts. “Like if I just believe in myself I’ll find the strength to singehandely slay a dragon?”

“With enough faith, maybe even a whole Archdemon.” Fenris drums his fingers nervously on the stone steps. “Do you mind explaining what has gotten into you this past week? A love spell, perhaps?”

Marian flushes. Shit. “It was. Uh. It was a stupid bet with Isabella and…oh Maker, it is so dumb. I am so sorry. It was. I bet Isabella that I could,” Marian coughs, nervously, before spewing out words as quickly as possibly, “could-get-you-to-kiss-me-before-the-week-is-over-oh-my-god-I-am-so-sorry.”

Fenris pauses. Marian can’t even look at him, she doesn’t want to know what his expression is. Probably judgement. Because it was a dumb idea. Ridiculous, and childish and Maker’s breath, why. Her life is the worst. Then Marian catches sight Fenris’s hand sliding between the two of them, closer and closer to Marian’s leg.

“Marian.” Fenris says her name very softly. Warily, she turns to look at him. His expression is unreadable, but not angry. Then, he arches both eyebrows curiously. “You could have just asked.”

Marian snorts. “And you wouldn’t run away again?” Fenris flinches, and Marian realizes she’s made a low blow. “I’m-so-sorry.”

“No,” Fenris exhales heavily, “No. You have a point. I apologize. I was…scared, and reacted poorly.”

“And now?” Marian asks.

“Now, what?”

“Are you scared now?”

“Of you?” Fenris laughs, “Only a little bit. You’re an intimidating woman, Hawke, I won’t lie about that. But, if kissing you will make Isabella finally lose a bet, I’m open to the possibility.”

Fenris is smiling, a soft, friendly smile that makes Marian’s heart flutter.

“Oh, is this only for the bet?” She asks, bumping her shoaler against his. Fenris leans in, smile widening.

“Perhaps.”

He presses his lips against hers, briefly, before pulling away. His cheeks are turning pink, but he doesn’t break eyecontact. It is not nearly enough time. Marian fake pouts. “I lied. I said I’d get you to make out with me by the end of the week.”

Fenris laughs. “Nice try, Hawke.” He moves his hand to squeeze hers, just as briefly as the kiss, and asks, “So, what shall we make our friend Isabella do?”

 

 

—

“I hate you both.” Isabella says, grumpily. She stands, in those hideous shoes from Fenris’s mansion, just off stage in the Hanged Man. They’ve agreed to set up an impromptu stage, made of a few tables held together by rope, for a time performance of Varric Tethras’s “Valencino and Marielle”, a tragic tale of star-crossed lovers. In the lead role: Isabella, cast against the poor barkeep who had also lost a bet. Neither of them looked thrilled. The barkeep is monologuing about the perils of love, and how much just hurts your soul. Fenris keeps snickering into his hand.

“And you wrote this?” Fenris chuckles. “I’m almost relieved I couldn’t read it.”

Isabella’s frown grows as the barkeep finishes his speech with, “Alas, where has my fair maiden gone?”

“It’s your cue, Rivani,” Varric says. Even he’s enjoying this, his lips have been twisted into a ridiculous smirk for most the night. Isabella groans, composes herself with a deep breath, and launches herself onto the stage.

“Oh, my love,” she cries, and her voice drips with sarcasm, “Every moment without you has been like one thousand paper cuts to my heart! I rushed to you as soon as I was able.”

The barkeep grabs her hands, pressing them into his chest. “My sweet honey blossom, I am so long as you are near. But I’m afraid it cannot last. I must leave soon, back to Starkhaven. Where my family awaits, presumably with a grusome punishment in mind for my wanton disobedience. This may be the last time we ever meet.”

“No.” Isabella says.

“Yes,” the barkeep replies. “I must ask one thing of you before I leave.”

“Oh, anything.”

“A kiss. To cement our love in the stars.”

“Oh, Valencio, of course.” The kiss is awkward, and uncomfortable, and neither one wants to be there at all. And it is wonderful, and worth ever single dirty glare Isabella will give her the rest of the week.


End file.
